Max missed the beginning, but you always miss the beginning of dreams, don't you?
Hotel Das Letras, in Lisbon. Each room there is dedicated to a writer, and features a quotation over the bed. I stayed in the J.D. Salinger room on the 8th floor, with a good view of red tiles and enclosed courtyards. I slept under the last lines of The Catcher in the Rye.
Hotel Le Rêve, in Santiago. A small, lovely, French hotel on a quiet street. A sense of conspiratorial hospitality on the part of the staff. Lavender in the towels, a chocolate on the night table. On the last morning: the breakfast room full of winter sunlight, a book on birdwatching that I read until the airport taxi came, and seriously considered stealing.
This is not a hotel review, although if you get a chance to stay at Hotel Le Rêve, I really recommend it. What I want to communicate was the feeling of a dream that I had during my stays. The details had a pre-destined glow about them, as though I'd been asked ahead of time about my preferences (Ok, perhaps if that had been the case, I would have slept under lines from Borges or James Salter, but...). Everything felt familiar and new at the same time.
It's important to recall one other strange detail: there was a Buddhist restaurant across the street from both of these hotels. As these were my first true voyages in my new job, it made me wonder if this would always happen (it didn't happen again). Apart from a good taqueria, there's no other type of restaurant I'd rather see beckoning me with candles and lovingly prepared vegetarian dishes.
Those trips were the beginning of a long tour, one that continues this autumn. I went from summer in Portugal to winter in Chile. In the week between those trips, I saw my father for the last time.
After his last round of chemotherapy, it was as though the total weight of his illness and treatment was finally felt. I was angry, I was worried. He would have bursts of energy followed by complete exhaustion. We tried to work on the things he wanted to finish. Friends visited, the minister came to start talking about a memorial service.
You're waiting for a train. You know where you hope it will take you, but you can't know for sure.
On the last day I made minestrone. The minister was there, the physical therapist, the hospice nurse and also a close friend. It was the last whole day we would ever spend together, and it had the three-ring circus quality that a fatal illness can engender.
What I remember most was his effort to be present, to care for the others.
I write another sentence, I delete it, I try again.
I have nothing to say, but I want to say it anyway.
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